


Breaking Brook

by SouffleGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Genderswap, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, Severin Moran - Freeform, rich brook - Freeform, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:39:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouffleGirl/pseuds/SouffleGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderswap Rich Brook centered Post Reichenbach drabble of sorts. <br/>The Moriarty twin's picked up by the police following her sister's suicide.<br/>(Forgive the terrible joke of a title I'm just terrible at naming things)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Brook

**Author's Note:**

> This ties in with a few pre-existing headcanons, so I guess for understanding I should explain a bit of them;  
> Richie/Richard's a dancer, she, Jaime/Jim, Seb and Sev live together.  
> Implications of twincest, various other standard warnings that go along with that.  
> Enjoy!

Richie’d been leaving the studio whenever the grey haired DI stopped her. He introduced himself as Greg Lestrade, checked her name, and eventually asked her to come with him. The rest of the dancers were looking nervous, to say the least, until the man opened the police car door for her, letting her get in by herself. Not the usual arresting style.  No cuffs, no pushing her head into the car, she was going of her own free will.   
That had been six hours ago.   
She’d spent the last two in a little grey room, with a two-way mirror on the wall; sitting at a metal desk in one of the most uncomfortable chairs she’d ever had the displeasure of using.

She glanced at the mirror again, staring at her reflection. She looked tired, and worried, but there was anger underneath all that. No matter what she asked, no one in the station had answered her. Not why she was there, or if she was in trouble, or what was going on, nothing. All she knew, was that they’d been looking for her.

“Is anyone going to tell me what the hell’s goin’ on?” She asked, sure that they’d be monitoring her with more than the mirror, “Or am I just bein’ left to rot here without a clue?” She continued, settling into a little rambling tangent along those lines.   
She went on like this for some time, twenty or so minutes if her watch was to be trusted, until the door finally opened, and a woman walked in.  
She recognised her immediately, but kept the recognition off her face. Sally Donovan, Jaime’d often had her up on surveillance in recent months. Never had explained why, Richie had assumed it was something to do with Holmes.

“Sharik Moriarty? I’m Sally Donovan, I was an officer on a few cases involving your sister,” the woman began, taking a seat across from Richie.   
“Richie, please, I hate that name,” Richie winced, before noting what Sally had said. She _was_ an officer on Jaime’s detected cases. Was. Past tense. She felt her heart quicken, and prayed to a god she hadn’t believed in since her mother sent Jaime to a boarding school whenever she saw them kissing, since her first pet had died, since her da walked out.

“Sorry, I’ll keep that in mind… When, when was the last time you saw your sister?” Sally asked, scribbling something on a sheaf of paper, no doubt mentioning her name.   
Richie looked down, frowning slightly, and tried to remember the exact day. Jaime often popped in and out of the house at odd times, she might be around at 4AM, and be gone before sunrise, not to come back until sunrise the next day.  
“Couple of days ago, I think, could be a bit longer than that I suppose, why? What’s happened?” She felt the ball of fear in her stomach grow, she felt nauseous.   
Sally took a breath, looking for all the world like she’d rather be anywhere else than there, in that room, and made another note.   
“Late yesterday morning, we got a call from St. Bart’s hospital, there was an… Incident, involving your sister. I can’t reveal too many details, but we believe she committed suicide.”   
Richie felt the earth spinning beneath her feet, the molecules in the table vibrating, she felt the pity in Sally’s voice, and saw the hardened look in her eyes that betrayed how little she felt about this. She could hear the light bulb buzzing in its socket, and the little tape recorder whirring as it recorded her every sound.  
“….Oh…” she couldn’t say anything else, not without screaming. She could feel the bile rise in her throat, the ball of fear and pain rolling, and growing, and rising with it.   
“IthinkI’mgonnabesick,” she muttered, and heard the scrape of Sally’s chair being pushed back. The other woman ducked out of the room for a second, and returned with a mostly empty plastic bin, which she put quickly in front of Richie, who promptly began retching into it.   
She was heaving long after her stomach was empty, and became conscious of Sally holding her hair back.  
She felt a surge of rage spill through her, directed at nothing in particular, but took it out on the officer.  
She pushed herself from Sally’s grip, and tried to breathe without heaving.   
“H-how did it happen? Do you know? Do you know _anything_?” She demanded, her voice grating over her raw throat, catching.   
“We don’t know much, and most of what we do know, I can’t tell you, but there was another suicide at roughly the same time. Your sister was found on the roof, the other died shortly after, in the hospital. Coroner’s report shows a self-inflicted bullet to the brain.” She said, trying to sound soothing.   
“When can I leave?” Richie asked, the colour had drained from her face, leaving an emotionless mask, dry eyed. She wouldn’t let anything else out here. Not now. Not in front of this woman, or the cameras, or whoever was watching through the glass.   
“There are a few questions we need to ask you, I’m sorry, but the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can collect your sister’s belongings and leave,” Sally said, sounding just about apologetic.   
So she answered them, some of them honestly, many of them dishonestly, and most of them twisted just enough.   
She painted the right picture, it seemed, as the DI from earlier took her back to his squad car, drove her to the morgue, and waited in the hall while she was led through the morgue by a woman with a more sincere air of apology about her.  
The woman introduced herself as Molly, and asked if Jaime’d mentioned her.  
She had.   
“She’s not _entirely_ stupid, or hateable, she’s just… A bit dull, really. I almost feel bad for using her, almost,” had been Jaime’s general sentiments about Molly Hooper.   
Richie nodded, and willed herself not to cry.   
“She was nice, when she wasn’t being… Mean. I’m sorry, that sounds awful and you probably don’t want to hear it, but she wasn’t all bad. She just… There was something missing, I think. I’ll stop talking now, sorry,” the little morgue attendant rambled, and stopped dead in front of one of the slabs.    
Suddenly, Molly was hugging her, and just as suddenly, she wasn’t.  
“It’s…She’s not pretty, I just… To warn you, is all, I was shocked…” she warned, just before she pulled the sheet covering a body past a face, down to a pair of collarbones.   
It took Richie longer than it should have to process the fact that the broken body, pale, and bloody, and crushed was her sister.  
Her face was barely recognisable, the bullet had seen to that. But it was her. Richie could see the little scratches Muffins had left, the little smiley face drawn on in Sharpie just over her collarbone.

“Detective Lestrade just wants to make sure that you, um, confirm identity…” Molly trailed off, perhaps realising that Richie needed a moment.   
In fact, she needed an eternity, the thoughts racing through her head were enough to make her consider following Jaime into whatever form of afterlife she was in now. But the moment passed, and she looked at Molly.   
“Do I… Need to sign anything, or what?” Richie swallowed her tears, and pushed the emotion down again.  
She’d have time to mourn soon, alone. The way she should.   
“Just this, there were a few things found with the… With her,” Molly forced herself to refer to Jaime as a person, not just another corpse. She’d known her. She’d been used by her, and tricked, and hurt, but she’d known her.  
Richie nodded, and signed the form Molly pushed in front of her, accepted the little plastic bag with the few items Jaime had had with her, and walked back out the door, feeling Molly’s pitying gaze at her back.  
Once Richie passed through the doors and back into the hall, Lestrade muttered something about driving her home, and Richie nodded, not entirely aware of what was happening.  
Her world was crumbling, piece by piece, and all she could comprehend was the gaping hole in her being, the scar on her hip felt cold, everything else felt too warm, her skull was buzzing, and before she knew it Lestrade was parked three streets away from the house.  
She didn’t remember telling him this address, but she must have.  
“We’ll have to contact you again soon, there’s some more questions we have to ask, but I’ll call ahead of time,” Lestrade said, handling the situation better than anyone else so far, and drove off as Richie started down the road, clutching the bag with everything deemed ‘not important’.  
But it was important. The bag was filled with the last things Jaime ever touched, or looked at.   
Her lipstick, a travel atomiser of her perfume, her wallet, Richie nearly dropped to the ground whenever she noticed what took up the bulk of the bag; a worn copy of The Thirteenth Tale, a book Richie had demanded she read. It was about twins, one living without the other.

Richie finally made it to the front door, she was numb, it felt as if she were floating on air instead of walking, as if the dead weight of pain in her stomach was the only thing keeping here on the ground. Her arms felt heavy as she unlocked the door and stepped inside.  
She heard laughing, Seb and Sev. They wouldn’t know yet.  
She left the door open as she walked down the hall, clutching the little bag filled with what was left of Jaime’s last day on earth, and felt the dam inside buckle against the tide of emotion she was holding in.    
“Jaime, Richie, that either of you?” Seb called from the living room, still laughing at something.  
“S’just  me,” Richie replied, hearing how pathetic her voice sounded, and kept walking into the living room. Maybe if she could just get to the living room, everything would be okay. Jaime would walk in the door apologising for being late, taking so long with the end of the Holmes thing, she’d wrap her arms around Richie’s waist and kiss the tip of her nose, apologise for scaring her, and take the book out of the bag to settle down and read.  
But that didn’t happen when she finally got to through the living room door.  
Instead, Richie collapsed against the wall, sobs wracking her body. 

 

-End

 

Might do a bit more if I ever get around to it, there's a good few plot bunnies featuring this lot floating around. Hope you liked it.


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